The Girl in the Vent Sherlock Holmes Romance
by TheObamaLlama
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been heavily drugged and thrown into the back of a stranger's trunk. When he finally awakens, he finds himself in a very strange place. Now, he's doing whatever he can to get out and it seems that his only means of escape is the helping of a certain woman.
1. Chapter 1

He heaved for breath as his world shifted and turned, falling upon his back. The senses that were constantly in use were gone, were taken away, and he was desperately grasping for them. A blazing, hazy mind churning and _scraping_ for ways of direction, information or even the simplest bit of data, but it was gone. The only thing he could possibly gather was the burning sensation within the muscle of his left shoulder. That was when he realized what was happening. Or what _had_ happened, rather. That ache in his arm giving the only answer he needed at the moment.

He had been _drugged_.

The thought had brought him into a distress of utter, complete _annoyance_. It was exceedingly late into the night and after a particularly difficult case, Sherlock Holmes had only wanted to take a quick walk to organize some of his thoughts, but rather than that, some random man had snuck up on him in the streets of London and stuck a needle into his shoulder, sending Sherlock into a seizing mess upon the concrete walkway. Though, it didn't seem that this consistent convulsing bothered the attacker; the stranger was able to pick him up with ease.

The man heaved Sherlock over his shoulder, certainly not being gentle in the process. The contact of bone to gut knocked the breath out of the detective. He gave out a painful groan as he hang limp amongst the stranger's back. Sherlock had tried to struggle to get release from the man's grasp, but due to sudden loss of motor abilities he couldn't do a damn thing. All he could do was watch with unfocused eyes as the attacker shoved him into the back of a trunk.

When Sherlock next awoke, he felt terribly sick to his stomach. He was thankful for the lack of food intake recently that day or else he was very sure it would end up all over the floor beneath him. His eyes felt heavy amongst his face. Everything about him felt tired and of complete exhaustion, but he could tell that the drug that once ran through his system had long since faded. It was easy to come to the realization of this, considering the speed of his mind's working at the moment. If these people were smart, they would've left him drugged.

Sherlock cautiously opened his eyes to see a blank room bathed in a gentle light. He began to move, but once again failed. Only this time, it was for a different reason. In looking, he found that a rope of constraints were wrapped about his arms and legs, attaching him to the metal chair he was currently resting in. He gave out a groan of annoyance. In raising his head, he searched about the room taking in all detail. Everything from the obvious scraping of human nail amongst the walls to the dilapidated state of the door across the room. Besides Sherlock himself and the chair he was sitting in, the room was utterly bare.

The sound of an opening door sent Sherlock to full alert. He watched with the utmost care as the wood amongst frame shifted, allowing a man to step into the small room. That was when Sherlock's mind went to work, scanning over every piece of puzzle the man wore about his figure.

 _Male, obviously._

 _Considering facial creases and lines along with his choice in clothing, must be in his early 30's._

 _Much too confident with himself. Walks ridiculously like a puffed up bird to prove so._

 _Small protrusion beneath the coat of his left side. Armed with some brand of pistol._

 _Rough, calloused hands; must do most of the dirty work. Size of muscles only prove this further._

 _Not the mastermind behind all of this. His daftness is practically radiating from his body. Just a dirty rat that works for the higher-ups._

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the man's face waiting for his reasoning of being here. The detective supposed he should hold his tongue for a little bit longer and let the man speak a bit. Considering he's an obvious bloke, he might just let a bit of information slip. The man clapped his hands together and let out a hearty laugh with seeing the awful state the detective was in.

"Well, if it isn't the famous Sherlock Holmes! Though I must admit, I've never seen you lookin' so rough, pal," he gave a gruesome smirk, walking up to Sherlock and giving him a harsh punch to the left side of his jaw. Sherlock groaned in pain from the strike, but slowly forced his head to turn back towards his attacker with piercing eyes. The man met him with an equally fierce gaze, putting his face right to Sherlock's.

"I can't tell you how damn long I've wanted to do that to you," the man spoke, harshness evident in his tone, all humor having gone.

Sherlock smirked and let the smartness slip right out of his mouth, "Then why don't you do it, again?"

The man grunted disapprovingly at his comment and sent Sherlock another clock to the face. This time, the detective gave out an involuntary cough, spitting out remnants of blood in the process. This was when Sherlock realized he probably shouldn't have said that, but his witty statements always seemed to get the best of him before he can even think through of the possible consequences.

"You won't be actin' so smart once you're dead, Sherlock Holmes," the man spat with a twisted grin, his eyes undeniably dark, "You've caused too much trouble for the boss."

"And who is this _boss_ you're speaking of," Sherlock spoke clearly, bravely.

"And that," the man pulled out his gun from the holster on his left side, "is for you not to know, Mr. Holmes."

For a moment, Sherlock very much thought he was going to be shot, but rather the attacker struck him with the butt of the gun, knocking him out once more.

And for the second time that day, Sherlock Holmes awoke in a strange, unfamiliar surrounding. Though, this time the situation was a bit different because now, he had obtained a dull ache within his head from where he had been struck by the gun. Not only this, but his constraints were now gone. In finding this, Sherlock reached his hand to the right side of his temple, feeling the obvious bruise left by the pistol. Looking at his fingertips, he found traces of blood from the wound. No doubt he had it running alongside his face, as well, but that was least of his concerns, now.

Sherlock looked about the new room. He was a bit surprised to see he was sitting on a bed. It was exceedingly stiff and uncomfortable, but a bed nonetheless. Other than that, the room was completely empty, looking like the one he had been in before. Though it seemed that this time, instead of the door being wooden, it was a very strong, sturdy metal. And its purpose was obvious. To make sure that nothing got out.

He sat amongst the bed for a moment in thought. About what he was going to do or who could possibly be up to this attack. Practically anything that might deem itself as useful, but unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to find nothing of importance. The only bit that _mentioned_ information at all was when that man said, ' _the boss_ '. Yet, that was hardly any data at all.

Getting bored with himself he looked about the room again. Everything was entirely the same; not that he had expected anything different, of course. He found the scratched up walls, his eyes wandering once again to the metal door, back down to the wooden paneling of the floor and as he followed along the bottom of the walls, something caught his eye.

A vent.

Sherlock rose from his spot immediately, walking over to the grate that was resting about the wall. Chipped gold painting covered an intricate design among the molded metal. He knelt down, one knee making contact with the floor, running his fingers along the vent. It was obviously much too tiny for Sherlock to fit through, much to his dismay, so he finally got back up after finding it to be trivial.

The detective paced about the room for a while thinking, waiting for something, anything. That was when there was a click of the door. His back was turned towards it, so he hadn't seen the person immediately. Though, he did notice something.

 _The footsteps are exceedingly light, careful in step._

 _Showing that either it's a woman or a very, very small man with a great intricacy in walking._

Finally, Sherlock turned round to meet with this new stranger and just as he suspected, it was a woman. She had long, messy blonde hair and eyes that were of what Sherlock would call a shade of green. He tilted his head slightly, examining her carefully.

 _Of very petite form. To the point of medical emergency. Definitely malnourished._

 _Eye contact not evident. Shows constant submission, especially among men._

 _In her late 20's._

 _She has been recently struck upon the face. The bruise is highly evident of this fact._

 _Her grip is tight among the platter she carries, showing excessive nervousness._

Sherlock watched her. Spotting the food on the platter she carried. He guessed that it was to be his, so he began to step forward. Though, he came to a halt as she jumped at his movements. Fear etched heavily amongst her face. A look of slight confusion formed along Sherlock's features. That was when it clicked and he looked at her a little too knowingly.

" _Ah_. I understand, now," his deep voice brought shock to her. She hadn't expected for it to be of that tone, "I'm not the only one they've done this to have they?"

She remained silent, but Sherlock could read the truth in her gaze. He found that he was, as always, right.

"And once they've been thrown here, they leave you to look after them. Highly unfortunate for you, hm? Probably got a few strikes here and there from an angry man not wanting to be in captivity."

Still silence from her, but he could see the agreement amongst her face.

"I'm not going to strike you, if that's what you're thinking," Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling in thought, "I'm saving my punches for someone else entirely."

In hearing this, the girl swallowed nervously. She started to move slowly towards Sherlock. The sound of her footsteps caused his attention to move towards her once more. She quickly moved her gaze away from his own, looking down and stretching her arms towards him, the tray of food in her hands.

Sherlock closed off the necessary distance between them to retrieve the platter. He grasped it in is hands as he watched her arms fall back to her sides. Sherlock rested the plate onto the bed behind him and could hear her shuffling towards the door.

"Before you leave," he stated. She stopped in her tracks, listening carefully, "Will you be the only one caring for me during my stay?"

The woman stopped a bit before thinking and for the first time, threw Sherlock a nod. At this, the detective gave out a slight hum of acknowledgement towards her before she turned back round and headed out the metal door.


	2. Chapter 2

Now, when it came to Sherlock Holmes he didn't exactly get enough intake of food so to speak, but he knew one thing for sure, he had to keep his strength up if he wanted to get out of here, so he ate small bits of the bread he was given. When it came to the glass of water, he drank it completely wanting to get as much sustenance as possible, considering it could be quite a while before he got the next meal.

Sherlock sat upon the edge of the bed, his feet pressed firmly against the ground and his hands clasped in front of him in thought. He had been in a lot of impossible situations, but as much as he hated to admit it, the enemy had the upper hand this time. They weren't as daft as Sherlock had first thought and he knew that he wouldn't be getting out anytime soon unless some God-given miracle were to suddenly appear, though Sherlock Holmes was hardly a man of faith.

It was then that his processing mind thought of a plan. A brilliant plan, at that. His lowered head shot up in excitement a grin slowly spreading itself amongst his face. _That_ was how he was going to get out. If Sherlock could play his cards just right he'd have eyes and ears nearly everywhere throughout the entire building.

That _woman_.

The detective stood abruptly and was nearly waltzing about his prison. She was the answer to all of his problems. She had to know nearly everything. Now, that girl couldn't be _all_ that difficult to convince. It was obvious that she disliked this place especially with all the cuts and bruises she constantly received from either workers or the various captives. And if she wouldn't cooperate with Sherlock, he could probably just manipulate her somehow, whether it be from a bribe or other form of object.

He was soon cut from his thoughts when he heard the metal door opening, once again. Sherlock had hoped it to be the girl, but unfortunately, it was another man; he was different from the last one Sherlock had met. The detective had instantly theorized that this was one of the higher-ups. The man was clean-cut and wore a finely made navy blue suit. He was sharper in the mind, too; Sherlock could see that instantly by the look of his calculating eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," the man's voice rumbled deeply, his face void of any emotion at all.

"Oh, so it's the afternoon is it?" Sherlock spoke half to the man in front of him and the other bit to himself, "Good to know."

"You've killed one of my finest men," he ignored Sherlock's previous statement, quickly cutting to the chase.

"So, _you're_ the head of the pack, then? Also quite good to know," he gave a hum of amusement in speaking with a slight bit of sarcasm to top it all off, "So much information all at once. I don't think I can handle it."

Sherlock had almost expected another hit to the head from his words, but this man across from him was much different comparing to the rat he had been confronted with earlier. He was well-composed, calm and, once again, quick in mind. This wasn't a man Sherlock could easily anger. Meaning, the detective would have to find different ways of getting information ( _such as, the woman he had just met_ ). Not that he had _expected_ it to be easy, but he was very much hoping it would be a simple task to get under his enemy's skin.

"Never were one for holding your tongue," the man threw Sherlock a lazy smirk, "Were you?"

Sherlock gave out a thoughtful hum as a response, sitting upon the edge of the mattress. He contemplated on the probability of success in taking down the man right here, right now. But how would he kill him? There were no blunt objects in the vicinity. Besides, the bed, of course and that would hardly be considered ideal as a choice of attack. So, that left strangulation with his own, bare hands.

Even if Sherlock was successful in leading the man to his very demise, what would happen then? The detective was out-numbered and he knew it. Even in killing him, it wouldn't lead to any good. Sherlock was tied down and they didn't even need a legitimate rope to do so.

 _'How annoying,'_ the thought rang amongst Sherlock's skull, leaving a dull throb in its wake. Though, he was brought back from his mind when he heard a click of a tongue, obviously coming from the man across the room.

"Seeing you would prefer to be left swimming in your own thoughts, I suppose I'll leave you be, for now," the man gave Sherlock a sickingly calm, twisted smile, walking towards him while fishing about his left pocket.

Before Sherlock could even register what was happening, he saw a flash a silver amongst the man's hand, landing on the detective's right, upper thigh. Sharpness ripped into the muscle of his leg and Sherlock hissed in pain, watching blood spill from his leg before the foreign object was quickly ripped out of his skin. In looking, Sherlock found a pocket knife in his enemy's hand, dripping with blood – his own blood. The detective nearly launched himself towards the man until the overwhelming pain shot through his leg, once again, causing him to crash into a piling heap on the floor

"Oh, don't worry," he eyed the detective, a sadistic expression amongst his face, "this is only the start, Sherlock Holmes."

As the metal door slammed shut, Sherlock finally let out the painful groan that was strangling itself within his throat, his fists clenched and knuckles turning a snowy white. He tried to stand once again, but his legs were failing him, crashing to the ground with a sickening crack as his head made contact with the wooden paneling. Sherlock held his head, trying to dull the ache. He rested his body amongst the floor, the heat from his leg heavy and throbbing.

Suddenly, there was another click of the door across from him and Sherlock heaved an internal sigh, deeply hoping that whoever it was, he wasn't to be stabbed again.

The young woman opened the door to check on her current 'patient'. That's what they called them, but the girl knew that the proper word was 'prisoner'. For, the occupants here were far from getting any sort of proper medical treatment. Quite the opposite, actually.

In opening the door, she felt a pang of guilt rush through her as she saw the man she was to watch over, a piling heap of limbs amongst the floor. Finally, she saw the blood that was slowly pooling about his body, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. Deciding immediately that she would help tend to his wounds, even though she really didn't _have_ to.

It seemed she just couldn't help it; she found that she liked him more than her other patients. He was calm and collected. Every other had hit her either out of spite, anger or surprise, but the man who she found to be named Sherlock Holmes, had only acknowledged her with a curious tilt of the head and a cocked eyebrow. For once, someone was actually _thinking_ before acting. It brought the young woman to a sense of ease.

The blonde woman knelt gently by his side, the tattered bag she carried making quiet contact with the paneling. She carefully lifted his head, the tip of her fingers amongst his chin, as if to say _'Don't worry. It's only me.'_ Even though they hardly knew each other. Her touch left him and with help from the young woman, they finally had Sherlock in a sitting position on the floor, as for the girl to properly inspect the wound.

Sherlock eyed the girl carefully. It was the same girl from before, much to his contentment because the more time they found with one another, the more he could make her trust him, and that's exactly what he needed to get out of here. Her trust.

He saw as the girl mercilessly ripped an even larger hole into the fabric of his worn pants, to get better access to the injury. It was obvious that she did this wound cleaning on a daily basis. Her fingers were quick and knowing of exactly what to do. To Sherlock, the pain was tolerable, until she got to cleaning the wound a bit deeper, causing the detective to let out involuntary sharp takes of breath and clenched eyes. Even so, he could sense her series of flinches every time he did so. Obviously, feeling some sense of sympathy towards him.

No words were spoken while she finished caring for the wound, leaving a somewhat large, white patch to cover it all up to keep out any possible infection.

"Thank you," Sherlock's words came out in a mumble. Now, the detective wasn't usually one to thank people, but he had to win her over and he was ready to do practically anything to do so. And for the first time, her gaze had risen to meet his own. Though it had only lasted a few seconds entirely before returning it to the wooden floor, that was all Sherlock needed. Series of words attacked his vision that gave a better understanding of what this woman truly was.

 _Exhausted_

 _Frightened_

 _Controlled_

 _Lonely_

 _Abandoned_

 _Curious_

That last word caught Sherlock's attention and stirred his current thinking to a halt. _Curious about what?_ That question was so obvious to him. As obvious as the very world around him. She was curious about _him_.

 _'Perfect,'_ the detective held back a gratifying smirk at his thought. That curiosity was bound to keep her around, and that's exactly what he needed. Sherlock then decided that he should try to get her to speak a bit.

"You don't like it here," it was a statement, not a question. A knowing statement, in fact. Sherlock liked to get to the point. Stalling was highly tedious and exceedingly _boring_. And how he absolutely _despised_ being bored.

Sherlock could practically see the gears turning in her head. There was something stopping her from saying the words, even though it was highly evident she wanted to share her thoughts. Her eyes searched everywhere but Sherlock, himself, until they finally rested amongst the blank wall, her mouth pressed harshly to a straight line.

It was then that the next revelation came to him, "You're not allowed to speak to the prisoners," Sherlock needn't look at her to figure the truth in his words because he was, as nearly always, 100% sure of himself that he was correct.

Slight disappointment settled at the pit of his stomach, but Sherlock quickly pushed it away. No matter. He would figure something out eventually. Though, he could only hope that by that time, it wouldn't be too late.


End file.
